A Tale of Plans and Time Turners
by yangorian
Summary: The fight at the Department of Mysteries has severe consequences for Hermione. When the Time Turners are destroyed she is sent back in time. What choices will she make and how will they affect the wizarding world? Can she just stand beside and watch while time takes its course?
1. Chapter 1

The jet red light of Neville's stupefy flew right over the Death Eater's shoulder and hit the glass fronted cabinet containing variously shaped hour-glasses - Time Turners. Hermione jumped out of the way just as the cabinet fell to the floor and the Time Turners shattered, sending sand all over the room. Hermione used her arms to shield her eyes, and coughed as she took a breath full of sand. She didn't see the blue light of the Death Eater's curse speeding towards her, and when Harry cried out to warn her it was already too late.

* * *

The first thing to register in Hermione's disoriented mind was that nothing in the room was broken and _that was wrong._

The second was that she was alone.

With rising panic she grabbed a tight hold on her wand and listened. She couldn't hear the Death Eaters call out to each other and the peace and serenity of the place made her skin crawl. Ever so slowly she opened the door to the Hall of Prophecies, ready to bolt at any sudden movement. Despite being a Gryffindor, she had never prided herself on her courage.

The room was cold and every glass orb was intact and placed neatly on the shelves, just like when they entered the Department of Mysteries.

She started breathing a little bit faster and rougher, verging on a panic attack. Something was wrong, _horribly_ wrong - she could feel it like a punch in the gut. Where had Harry and Neville disappeared to? Why was everything so neat and clean, like they hadn't even _been there_?

She managed to calm herself down as she remembered the broken Time Turners. Of course! She must have gone back a few hours in time.

Her relief didn't last long, as she was struck by another thought. The Death Eaters had already been in the Department of Mysteries when they arrived, so they could enter any second! It wouldn't do for her to be a sitting duck.

Set on getting out of the Department of Mysteries, she went back through the room containing Time Turners and entered the large black circular room with twelve doors. She cast 'Flagrate' on the door before closing it, and closed her eyes as the room blurred around her. When the room had stopped spinning she opened the door to the right of the one she'd closed. Wrong door, she thought as she noted the tanks full of brains. She cast another 'Flagrate' and repeated this sequence until she saw the corridor they had entered by. At the end of it she opened the plain black door and pressed for the lift. It scrambled into a halt and she pressed the level eight button, labelled 'Atrium'.

Hermione's heart almost stopped when the lift suddenly stopped and several witches and wizards crammed their way in. She was pushed into a corner and the gates closed before she could get out. As the lift started moving again Hermione released the tight grip she had on her wand. She had been so intent on getting out of the Department of Mysteries that she'd forgotten there would be people working.

A few minutes later she was back on level eight and this time she managed to stumble her way off. She smoothed out her robes and glanced up. For a moment she just stopped and stared. Hermione had never been to the Ministry before today, and seeing the Atrium bustling with activity was a magnificent view. The busy people scurrying about, the sense that there were important things going on and decisions being made - it all appealed to Hermione more than she ever could have imagined. Something in her heart clicked into place and she felt that this, _this_, was the right place for her. This would be her destination, her goal in life.

Yet something seemed wrong. Out of place. She just couldn't figure out _what_. She scowled at the Fountain of Magical Brethren. She was already planning on changing it to something more tasteful.

She glanced up at a large clock hanging on one of the walls. One o'clock. One more hour until the History of Magic OWL exam would take place. OWLs she'd already taken. Accustomed though she was with Time Turners, it still confused her to think of the past as the future.

She wanted to stay a bit longer, but realised she couldn't. As she made her way to the Visitors' Entrance she cast one more glance over her shoulder. Something didn't feel quite right, but she shrugged it off and left the Ministry.

She stepped out of the telephone box and did a double take - debris was everywhere she looked. Along both sides of the street stood skeletal remains of what had once been buildings - shops, restaurants and homes. A few boys were playing among the wreckage, trying to not touch the ground in an outdoor version of 'the floor is lava'. The boys were dirty, and wore ragged clothes. They almost seemed to belong in a silent film, she thought to herself, and then promptly started to panic. Just how far back in time had she been sent? She tried to ignore the answer that was glaring back at her. _Don't_ think about it, she told herself. Let's not jump to conclusions.

Everything she knew about time travelling said that it was impossible to go further back than a few hours. _Impossible!_ The books had told her that it couldn't be done. She tried to convince herself that they were just shooting a movie set during the Second World War.

For the first time in her life she cursed her own brain for not being so gullible.

_Let's not panic._

The adjacent street had less rubble, so she thought she should go there. She swore when her robes snagged on a rusty spike and the boys behind her seemed shocked at her foul language. Her cheeks burned. She tried to ignore them and continued moving toward the cleaner street.

She had to find out when she was.

She saw a newsstand and paused. She both wanted and didn't want to know. With her heart beating hard in her chest, she approached the news stand and picked up a paper. She scanned the front page for a date.

_August 5, 1942._

As her suspicions were confirmed her jaw went slack, her knees gave away and she promptly sat down on her arse.

* * *

The thoughts speeding around in Hermione's brain couldn't match the speed with which her emotions shifted. In those short seconds she went through every stage and nuance of shock; from fright, to panic, to sorrow and back again. How did she - how would she get back - this was _impossible_ - would Harry be alright - what was she going to _do_?

"Miss! Are you going to pay for that?"

The voice sounded irritated. Her hands held a tight grasp on the newspaper. Trying to smooth out the crinkles, she said, "Sorry, I was just... The war - it's just terrible..."

She handed it back to the vendor. His eyes had softened. "Yes. But we can take it. Tough lot, we are!" And he smiled.

She returned the smile, even though her insides were twisting and struggling, and her heart was racing. Once again she felt like someone had punched her in the gut. She said goodbye to the man and started walking aimlessly.

What was she going to do? She was an underage _witch_, in London during World War 2, without a home. She couldn't return to Hogwarts. She couldn't use her money since they hadn't been made yet. Come to think of it, she didn't even know if the wizarding currency looked the same. She couldn't use magic because of the Decree for the Reasonable Restriction of Underage Sorcery. She wouldn't turn seventeen until September 19.

For a slight moment she toyed with the idea of going to professor Dumbledore. He would help her. But, no. She couldn't tell him. She couldn't tell _anyone_. What if she messed everything up? What if she prevented Harry or Ron from being born? Or _herself_? No, the risks were too great. She would have to come up with some other plan.

Tears were forming at the corner of her eyes. She calmed herself down by doing a mental list of priorities. Logic was her forte, after all. Number one was a roof over her head and food to eat. That directly meant she would need money. And that meant either stealing, or working. She didn't fancy stealing at all, but she wasn't sure how to get a job without being asked questions she couldn't answer.

She heard giggling behind her back, and saw girls pointing at her. She swiftly added a new number one priority - her alias. She would need to create a new Hermione and she _desperatly_ needed clothes that blended in. She knew nothing of 1940's fashion.

She needed to change her entire appearance.

* * *

She reprimanded herself the entire time, telling herself how mean and wrong she was to do this - and then she swiftly grabbed some clothes hanging on a clothes line and ran. Step one had been completed. She had nicked a long skirt and a blue blouse. Now she just had to change into the clothes, without exposing herself to anyone.

Finding a private place that wasn't in a dark alley was harder than she'd thought. In the end she struggled into a large rhododendron bush and changed clothes as quietly and discreetly as she could. When finished, she was posed with a new dilemma - what should she do with her old clothes (or should she call them modern clothes? She was a little confused.)? She didn't have a bag to hide them in, and she couldn't just leave them on the ground. Maybe she could burn them, or bury them (although that would make her dirty). Burning seemed like the safest choice, but where could one do that?

She hated not being allowed to use magic!

She shoved her wand into the front of her skirt - she knew that Mad-Eye had told them not to, but this was an emergency! - and wandered around, with her old clothes in her arms.

She walked for an hour, searching, but she couldn't find a suitable place for burning her clothes. So, instead she managed to stuff them down into the sewer system, and hoped that they wouldn't be found right away.

Feeling a little bit lighter, she decided it was time to do something about her appearance. She wanted to enter the wizarding world, but she didn't want to risk being remembered by anyone in the future. So, for the second time that day, Hermione took something that didn't belong to her.

Two hours later she looked at her own reflection through a window. Bushy brown hair had become brittle bleach blonde hair. She shuddered. Never in her life would she have considered going blonde, but desperate times... And she definitely didn't resemble Hermione Granger from the future. She would have to cut it shorter though, but she would leave that to the professionals. Instead, she just pinned it up in a tight knot.

She had almost forgotten to bleach her eyebrows. That would have looked quite ridiculous.

Giving herself one last appraising eye, she thought it was time to enter Diagon Alley.

* * *

The magical world felt like home. The slow thrumming of magic enveloped her as she appraised Diagon Alley. The street was as bustling with activity as she was used to, but there were quite a few shops and boutiques which she did not recognize. Gone were both Madam Malkins and The Magical Mengerie.

She wandered about for quite some time. Sometimes she spotted people with resemblance to classmates, and figured they had to be relatives.

Her stomach growled.

Entering a bookstore, she revelled in the smell of old and new books, and promptly went to the store manager and asked for a job. He laughed, but decided to indulge her. She supposed she should have thought it through a little better, and when he asked her for credentials she had no idea what to answer. Humiliated and resigned she exited the bookstore, vowing to never set foot in there again. Maybe she was being petty, but being laughed at usually does that to a person, and Hermione was particularly unaccustomed to such embarrassment.

As much as she'd rather pull a blanket over her head and call it a night, she really needed a job. That was how she found herself turned down a second, third and fourth time. It stung her self esteem.

At the far end of Diagon Alley she found a small and cosy cafe, with plumt armchairs and a roaring fire, despite it being in the middle of summer. As she stepped inside, she realised that this was a place she could really be comfortable working at. Instead of being herself, she decided to try to adopt a somewhat aloof personality. If being honest and eager didn't work, it was time to change the strategy.

"Would you like to order, Miss...?" said the man behind the counter. He raised an eyebrow and she realised she'd been staring.

"Oh, ehm..." The question caught her off guard, so she blushed and lowered her head. "I don't have enough money..."

He was quiet, waiting for her to explain what she was doing in his cafe without money.

She took a moment to gather courage and arrange her thoughts. "I recently arrived here in London. Today, as a matter of fact. I was wondering, Mr..." she trailed off.

"Carpenter."

"I was wondering, Mr. Carpenter, whether you would be in need of some assistance in this cafe." She looked right at him, almost unblinking, like she had been taught was a sign of confidence. She blushed a little as he pointedly looked around the cafe and its empty chairs before raising an eyebrow and returning her gaze in full.

"I'm a very skilled waitress," she lied, "and I know just how to make this place better frequented." She straightened her back.

"Do you, now?" Mr. Carpenter asked, his voice a strange mixture of exasperation and amusement. "Do tell."

Hermione tried to still her nerves as she took a gamble. "Hire me first, then I'll tell."

The following minute was spent in silence; Mr. Carpenter contemplating her offer and appraising her, and Hermione doing her best not to fidget under his piercing gaze. Suddenly, Mr. Carpenter turned his back and went into the staff room behind the counter. Hermione hardly breathed until he reappeared with a piece of parchment in his hand.

"Miss...?" he asked.

"Miss Smith. Hedwig Smith," she replied. She had always loved Harry's owl. It also seemed appropriate to use the snow white owls name now that she had turned blonde.

"Sign here, Miss Smith," he said and pointed at the parchment.

Hermione nodded but proceeded to read the terms of the contract before signing it. She wasn't _stupid_. Agreeing to the terms, she signed and handed it back to Mr. Carpenter, who made the contract disappear into thin air.

"You start tomorrow, at five o'clock, Miss Smith."

"I'll see you then, Mr. Carpenter," she said, feigning an air of indifference, but her smile threatened to burst out at any moment. Exiting the cafe, her next step would be to find a place to sleep.


	2. Chapter 2

Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter, or any part of its wonderful universe.

* * *

If finding a job had proved to be a little more challenging than she'd thought, finding a place to stay without having any money proved to be twice as difficult. No one wanted to take in a poor girl, even for a night, without getting paid up front. She grumbled as she walked down Diagon Alley the sixth time that evening. And then her stomach grumbled in agreement, making her cheeks burn with embarrassment. _How in the world had her life come to this?_

As time went by, however, her anxiety over not having a place to sleep was overridden by her fear of screwing up at her new job. She _had_ claimed to be very skilled, though in actuality she had no such experience. She hated when she screwed up. She hated being laughed at. She sat down at the steps leading up to Gringotts and comforted herself. She'd just excuse herself by saying she used to work in a muggle café if anything went wrong. It would fit her background story quite nicely.

Hermione sighed. She really wanted this job. She _needed_it.

As the sun set and the air became chilly she pulled her cloak closer. Her stomach grumbled one last time, before resigning and realising that there would be no food tonight. She leaned back against one of the many pillars holding up the large Gringotts complex, her figure a dark spot against the ivory white of the building. Nestling even further into her cloak, she slumbered off.

* * *

At five o'clock in the morning, Hermione found herself in front of the café, waiting for Mr. Carpenter to open up. She hadn't managed much sleep. Frazzled thoughts and emotions – mostly different kinds of anxiety – ran through her. What if she fucked up at her job? Would she starve to death then? What if she changed the future? What if she already_ had_ changed the future? _What if she could never go back?_

She had never felt more alone.

_Hedwig Smith, Hedwig Smith, Hedwig Smith._

She had started to worry that Mr. Carpenter had played her for a fool, having her sign a faux contract, when, at last, he opened the door. "Inside, Miss Smith."

He almost sounded like Professor Snape. She was struck by a sudden wave of homesickness, which swiftly abated when she realized how ridiculous it was to feel homesick because of Snape. She smiled.

Mr. Carpenter handed over her new work clothes and showed her to the small bathroom in the back where she could change into them. If he noticed her dishevelled state and the bags under her eyes, he didn't comment on it.

Hermione took the opportunity to freshen up and made the most of it. She thoroughly washed every reachable body part, she removed the slight smudges of mascara under her eyes and she pondered whether she should leave her hair down. Though, on second thought she figured that, as a waitress, it would be beneficial to have her hair pulled into a tight bun. She was extremely unaccustomed with the new blonde hair, but she really couldn't see any resemblance to the bushy-haired Hermione Granger. It was a good thing. She smiled again.

_Hedwig Smith._

Finally she left the bathroom, hoping she hadn't taken too long to get ready. Mr. Carpenter was in the small kitchen area in which he apparently made everything found in the café's glass displays.

Hermione was nervous. "Mr. Carpenter? Where would you like me to start?"

"Make sure everything is in order, that all tables and chairs are clean, and polish the glass display." He waved his hand dismissively at her, so she did as he asked.

Awhile later he came out of the kitchen and froze. For a short while he watched her clean the tables by hand before giving her a disbelieving look. "Are you even seventeen?" he exclaimed.

Hermione blushed to the roots of her hair. She felt like a squib posing as a witch; an _impostor_. Stop that, she thought, and forced the blush away. _Confidence. _"No. I turn seventeen next month, on September 19th. I hope you can wait that long. Let's call this a trial period, until I'm allowed to perform magic freely." She continued cleaning where she'd left off, feeling Mr. Carpenter's eyes on her back the entire time, but pretending not to notice.

"Pray tell, how long were you planning on working here, Miss Smith?" he asked in a silky voice.

Hermione straightened her back. "I was hoping to have a job until next autumn, at least," she answered, meeting his eyes.

"Miss Smith, if you are not seventeen, then you have neither taken your NEWTs nor graduated yet." Mr. Carpenter was leaning against the door in a casual way, but his voice could cut diamonds. Hermione swallowed hard.

"I haven't even taken my OWLs," she said quietly and glanced away. Technically it wasn't a lie.

"Why in Merlin's name not?" Mr. Carpenter exclaimed. He opened his mouth to continue, but Hermione cut him off.

"I'm not stupid and I'm not skipping school, if that's what you're thinking." She finished a bit quieter, "In fact, I used to be home schooled."

Mr. Carpenter narrowed his eyes. "Used to be?"

"Yes," she simply answered and got back to work. Eventually, so did Mr. Carpenter, even though he seemed to have more things to say. Hermione sensed that he was just as reluctant to ask deeper questions as she was to answer them.

* * *

Throughout the day Hermione sneaked away small amounts of leftover cookies and cakes to eat at a later time. She couldn't believe how some people didn't even take a single bite out of what they'd ordered! It was a scandal – an outrage! – and a complete waste of resources, time and money.

Customers seemed to like Hermione though, and she neither knew nor cared whether it was because of her looks or because of her (almost non-existent) waitressing skills. They had tipped her enough that she would be able to afford a very cheap room in one of the taverns in the shadier part of Diagon Alley. She was not yet desperate enough to enter Knockturn Alley, and, at least as it seemed right now, she would never need to get that desperate.

She was sure Mr. Carpenter would have given her some of her salary early if she'd asked him, but she didn't want him to know how badly she was off. She needed to keep at least that much of her dignity intact.

At times when there were few customers in the café and Mr. Carpenter didn't need her assistance, she would sit behind the counter thinking about her future. Realistically, she would need to create a real life for herself in this time, to survive as she tried to find a way to get back home. In order to create a real life, she would need to graduate from Hogwarts. How she was going to solve this problem was still to be seen, but she would start by sending the current Headmaster of Hogwarts a letter. Headmaster Dippet.

And _Tom Marvolo Riddle_, she thought darkly. Had he killed yet? She couldn't remember. She would have to draw a time table at a later time. It was surprisingly hard to remember stray facts when she couldn't double check the correct answer.

Would Hogwarts be able to accept a new student, whose name was not written in the admissions book? Would home schooling be an acceptable excuse or would she have to come up with something else? Home schooled in another country, perhaps. She recalled that the magical quill of Hogwarts detected every birth of a magical child and wrote his or her name down in a large parchment book. But would it detect magical children born in another country? Maybe she could claim to have been raised in another country for the first few years of her life, and then being home schooled somewhere in the United Kingdom. The more she thought about it, the more confident she grew.

This might actually work.

She smiled at a customer waving her down, being polite and charming like never before, while hoping for more tips. Maybe she could take a bath tonight. Her smile grew wider.

The rest of the day passed relatively quickly, and she didn't know whether to be delighted or insulted that she was doing a good job. Honestly, a_ waitress._

When the working day was over and they were done preparing for the next day, Hermione grabbed her clothes and headed for the door. "Same time tomorrow, Mr. Carpenter?" she asked over her shoulder.

He came out of the kitchen to stand by the door, opening it for her. "Same time tomorrow."

As Hermione stepped outside, he snapped his fingers and exclaimed, "Oh, I almost forgot!" He paused and said in a low, conspiratorial voice, "I'll let you in on a secret about underage magic, little Miss Smith." Hermione wrinkled her nose at his condescending tone, but said nothing. "Although the Ministry can detect the use of magic in the presence of an underage witch, they are unable to determine the source."

And he shut the door in her face.

* * *

Two words came to mind when Hermione inspected her room for the night: Hotel hell. She knew that she couldn't afford to be picky, but that didn't stop her from walking around on the tips of her toes. And did she really want to sleep in that bed?! She'd need to take double baths, just to get the filth off her body in the morning.

The room was small and shabby, but had everything she needed; a bed, a desk with a rickety chair, a small armchair by the window and a bathroom. She cautiously sat down in the armchair with her clothes in her lap. She should change out of her work clothes.

Her feet hurt and she felt a headache developing at her temples; her punishment for having forced a smile onto her face the entire day. She wasn't one of those girls who could feign emotions at the drop of a hat; she had to struggle for it. But maybe she'd get used to it. Maybe she would become like one of those girls; like Lavender Brown or Parvati Patil. They drove her insane with their giggling and whispering about boys and divination and gossip about other girls.

She missed them.

She needed to use the bathroom. She brought her clothes – her stolen clothes – with her. The door had no functioning lock. She jumped at the sight of her own reflection in the mirror, before remembering that this was what she looked like now. The mirror had a large crack in it, distorting her features. Maybe she should start applying ridiculous amounts of makeup, to make sure no one would ever connect Hedwig Smith of the past to Hermione Granger of the future. She laughed.

It wasn't funny.

After a quick bath, she contemplated whether or not to use one of the taverns towels, but she decided that would be counterproductive, so she walked about her room, naked and uncomfortable, instead. At least she had a room at the top floor.

She looked at the bed in disgust. What if Mr. Carpenter was right? Should she risk using a little bit magic, just to clean the sheets? But what if he was wrong? Would the Ministry try to send her a letter of reprimand only to realise they didn't know her name; that she shouldn't exist in this world? What would happen to her then?

She couldn't do it if there was even a microscopic chance that Mr. Carpenter was wrong.

Tomorrow, she would have to buy a quill, ink and some parchment, so that she could form a letter to Headmaster Dippet. She had no idea what she was going to write but she knew that her first contact had to be perfect. There was no room for error or loose ends. If she knew herself, she would need at least four days to finish that letter. Being a perfectionist was exhausting.

Night fell.

Wrinkling her nose in distaste and breathing through her mouth, she slid between the sheets. They smelled like Neville's Mimbulus Mimbletonia. She whimpered.

* * *

Hermione sat at the desk after a long day of work. Candles showered her in light and created lines over her face.

"Dear Headmaster Dippet," she read out loud. "I have a request to make. My name is Hedwig Smith, and…" she trailed off, sighing, before crumpling the parchment, tossing it into the bin and starting over. "Dear Headmaster Dippet. I'm Hedwig Smith and I wonder if there's any possibility for me to be accepted into Hogwarts next year." Oh god, could she sound any more like an eight-year-old?

She tapped her quill against the table. A nervous habit. "Dear Headmaster Dippet. Until this year I have been fortunate enough to receive home schooling, but due to a recent conflict with my family I would very much like to take up studies at your prestigious school. Would Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry accept me? If I'm not entirely wrong I would be in your sixth year. Sincerely, Hedwig Smith."

There. That sounded much better. With a few changes and rephrasings she could owl that letter as soon as the Owl Post Office opened the next morning.

* * *

Early in the morning of August 8th, 1942, a grey owl dropped a letter onto Tom Riddle's head. The owl didn't bother staying, for every owl in Hogwarts knew that Tom Riddle never had anything to feed them. Nevertheless, for the first time in almost two months, Tom Riddle was happy.

With hands somewhat shaking in anticipation – even though he _knew_ what the letter contained – he opened it. A shiny badge fell out of the envelope. It was green and silver, with a large _P_ in the middle and a snake slithering around the edges of the badge. Tom Riddle's face alighted with satisfaction. Some would claim that happiness didn't suit him.

But happy he was. He was happy because he made prefect. He was happy because of the opportunities and the authority that brought. This year he would have power over the other students. This year he could begin to set his plans in motion. This year the Chamber of Secrets would be opened.

* * *

**A/N:** I mean no offense to waitresses – I personally consider myself too much of a ditz to ever pull off waitressing. You have my respect!

I have used the movie version of the Prefect badges. They are shinier.

I hope you enjoyed this chapter!


	3. Chapter 3

Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter, or any part of its wonderful universe.

* * *

As the beginning of a new school year drew closer, students with their families started filling the streets of Diagon Alley, making it difficult to navigate and forcing people to push past each other. The streets were loud, crowded and Hermione loved it. She almost felt like everything was normal, if she disregarded the fact that she didn't recognise any of the students.

She took the opportunity to owl her letter to Headmaster Dippet during her lunch break, pressing past a throng of people on her way to the Owl Post Office. It was a warm day, and droplets of sweat were forming along her spine, making her blouse cling uncomfortably to her back.

As she entered The Owl Post Office, she realised it was as bustling as the streets outside and she anxiously tapped her foot on the floor as she waited for her turn.

* * *

Hermione was starting to get accustomed to working. She had the table numbers memorized, she had learned how to balance a full tray and her feet didn't feel like they were dying every night when she removed her shoes.

As the last customer exited the café for the evening, she breathed a small sigh of relief. She was really tired today. In an effort to make as much money as possible before (hopefully) going to Hogwarts again she worked from opening till closing and it was exhausting. Not as exhausting as when she used the Time Turner in third year, but it was definitely top three.

She massaged her neck with one hand and therefore almost didn't catch the bag Mr. Carpenter tossed to her. Her cheeks burned red hot when she saw that the bag contained a small assortment of foods. _He'd noticed that she smuggled leftovers._

The proper thing to do would be to thank him, but she mostly resembled a fish on land as her throat refused to produce any sound.

She clutched the bag like a child might a teddy bear. Mr. Carpenter had already proceeded with the closing up-routines.

The pride that the Gryffindor House was so famous for wasn't just an asset. While it had proven handy in death-defying situations (which she and her friends found themselves in much too often, in her opinion) it was also a hindrance. Right now, that pride stopped her from thanking Mr. Carpenter. Her pride refused to let her openly acknowledge the fact that she'd sunken this low. And her cheeks burned again, but for a different reason.

That night she found it more difficult than ever to fall asleep. Was she really such a coward? She had always had a hard time accepting academic failure, but when had her fear of showing academic weakness spilled over into her personal life? When did emotional vulnerability become a weakness in her mind?

She looked out the window at the pitch black sky and sighed. It was going to be a long night.

* * *

A few days after receiving the shopping list from Hogwarts, Tom Riddle made his way down Diagon Alley, trying to touch – and get touched by - as few people as possible. He had arrived early – he had never needed much sleep – but he didn't mind having to wait for the shops to open. He had missed this buzzing activity of wizards and witches gathering in one place, their magic communicating with each other without most of them even realising it.

He had his ration of money to buy school supplies in his pocket, and he was currently debating which books to buy in pristine condition and which to buy cheap. He _loathed_ having to buy things second hand. An entire parchment filled with items and various markings beside each item rested safely inside his robes. He always changed out of his muggle clothes at the first opportunity he got – most often at The Leaky Cauldron.

He sat down at a bench. Adding further items on his list, he frowned. He needed to restock on crystallised pineapple; the amounts Professor Slughorn required meant that Tom's budget was tightened even further.

It would all be worth it in the end, though_._ Soon people would be buying _him_ gifts, going to him for favours. The frown turned into a satisfied quirk of lips.

As Hermione stumbled down Diagon Alley with her hair in all directions and shirt barely buttoned, cursing herself for having overslept, she bumped into someone who was walking rapidly in the opposite direction. She got the wind knocked out of her for just a second, and had it not been for the stranger's sudden grip on her bicep, she would have fallen. Maybe she should slow her pace a little, she thought as she rubbed her shoulder.

"I beg your pardon, Miss."

Hermione smiled. "Oh, that was quite my –"

However, her smile of gratitude froze on her lips when she glanced up and met the dark gaze of a young lord Voldemort. "— quite my fault," she ended breathlessly. She had barely been able to stop her jaw from dropping.

His hair was impeccable and no blemishes marred his skin. His clothes were worn, but clean; he looked like a proper wizard. The only thing betraying his true colours was the slight sneer curving his lips. He gave her a fast appraising look, probably noting her occupation, how uneasy she was of the situation (he probably thought she was taken away by his good looks, Hermione thought bitterly) and how she managed to seem even poorer than he himself was, before deciding that she was no one of importance. He gave her a short, polite nod goodbye before stepping around her to continue his shopping.

_Callous arrogant bastard._

Hermione stood rooted to the ground. It had all happened so fast. Adrenaline shot through her body in a delayed reaction and she was feeling a bit faint. She placed a hand on the spot where he'd grabbed her. Would she have a bruise tomorrow?

As she continued towards the café, albeit in a slower pace than before, she promised herself to make a chart of Tom Riddle's early years as soon as she came back to her room.

Throughout the day, Hermione tried to shake the meeting with Riddle off her mind. One thought lingered though. One _extremely irritating_ thought.

Like most callous arrogant bastards, Tom Marvolo Riddle was drop dead gorgeous.

Objectively she knew that this was only the truth. Subjectively she hated herself for having noticed at all. Harry and Ron's teasing about Gilderoy Lockhart would be nothing in comparison to the scolding she'd get if they knew about _this_.

* * *

When Headmaster Dippet's answer arrived in the middle of the afternoon, Hermione needed to take a minute before she could muster up the courage to open it. Her butterflies swiftly vanished and were replaced by irritation when she read the answer. It wasn't a yes. It wasn't a no. It held absolutely no information of her chances of being accepted into Hogwarts. It only said that a professor from Hogwarts was to visit her in the coming week, to discuss her situation. Not the Headmaster himself, god forbid! He didn't even provide her with a time or a date, just _sometime next week_. Her hopes of getting accepted into Hogwarts that autumn seemed more moot by the second.

Could this day get any worse, she asked herself, before knocking on wood. It was silly of her to challenge fate, since fate already seemed to have an eye out for her. Perhaps she scrubbed the tables a little too violently, because a customer flinched and Mr. Carpenter scowled at her. She sighed when he started walking toward her.

"I'm very sorry about that, Mr. Carpenter. I will be more careful in the future."

"Do you have a Gringotts' account, Miss Smith?" he said, completely ignoring her previous statement.

"Ah… no. No I don't, Mr. Carpenter," she answered.

"Well, create one. Today."

Her confused look only made his frown deepen. "Your upcoming salary, Miss Smith. You do still want it, correct?"

"Oh. Oh! Yes, of course! I'll arrange something today, Mr. Carpenter!" she said.

He gave her a curt nod before returning to the kitchen.

_Wonder what time Gringotts closes._

She smiled. _Who cares; I can move out of that flee infested hole they call a tavern!_

The afternoon passed quickly after that. At closing, Mr. Carpenter stayed by himself, so that she could go to Gringotts. She changed into her casual clothes before leaving for Gringotts. As she climbed the stairs to the tall white building she could feel anxiety returning to her with full force – by this point it was almost like welcoming an unwelcome guest back into her life. What if they couldn't open an account for her? She had no idea what kind of magic they used when creating accounts.

She took a deep breath and pushed open the door. As she walked in, she looked around, trying to spot any differences between the present Gringotts and the future Gringotts. She drew a blank. This was truly a place where time stood still. Even the goblins looked the same!

Getting more nervous with every step, she walked over to one of the unoccupied goblins and cleared her throat. "Good afternoon."

"Good afternoon," he replied impassively.

"Ehm…" She didn't know what to say. She felt her cheeks heat up as she tried to stutter her business. The goblin eventually took mercy on her.

"What may your business at Gringotts be, Miss?"

She calmed herself down, forcing herself to take deep breaths. "I would like to open an account," she said, blushing again when the goblin looked thoroughly unimpressed with her. It was difficult to tell whether he was only looking down on her because of his tall counter, or really _looking down on her_.

He wrote something on the parchment before him. "Do you or your family have any accounts here?"

"No. No previous accounts." Under his watchful gaze she felt forced to further explain herself. "I wasn't born in this country."

He made a few more markings on his parchment before leading her into a small room that much resembled an office. Parchment occupied every flat surface and huge cabinets lined the walls. He retrieved a stack of parchment from one of the cabinets, and gestured for her to take a seat, before sitting down himself.

"Well then. I have all the papers that you need to sign before an account can be opened. I suggest you read these _thoroughly_."

The way he stressed the word _thoroughly_ made Hermione wonder how many people had received nasty surprises due to careful wording, so she slowly started reading the agreement. An hour and a half later she was almost done, and she had discovered a few clauses that she doubted many wizards and witches gave much thought to when signing. None of them seemed to affect her though, and there had not been any clause stating that an accountholder had to use his or her real name.

The goblin returned just before she finished, and, as he sat down, he asked whether she was truly done reading already or whether she simply couldn't bother reading any more. Judging by his tone, most people sat a whole day without fully understanding.

Hermione bristled. How dare he imply that she was a lazy idiot! "I read the agreement fully but I have some questions. Let's start with the ones strictly regarding money. How does paragraph 1, section 5b correspond to paragraph 4, section 2? They seem to be counteracting each other. And how does the bank take into account the different monetary values in different countries? Or the different monetary values of the wizard and the muggle world?" Hermione wasn't really interested in the answer, but she would give that snotty goblin a run for his money.

Two hours later, Hermione had run out of questions, the goblin had run out of answers, and both were panting slightly from an earlier heated disagreement.

"Well then. I think you understand the agreement now, Miss Smith. Sign here, here, there and here," he said, and pointed. As she signed, she felt more than saw her magic signature seep into the contract. She thought she finally understood how it worked. The bank didn't need a name because using a witch or wizard's magical signature was much more effective; it was like fingerprints, in a way. After signing, he gave her an account key, a parchment containing all her account information and showed her to the door. They were the only ones left in the building, and it was dark outside.

"An account update will be sent to you at the end of every month, Miss Smith, to help you manage your finances. Good night."

"Thank you for your assistance and good night," Hermione said before exiting Gringotts, an account and a whole lot of experiences richer. The way back to her room was made with light steps – tomorrow she would finally be able to get a better room!

The very next day Hermione returned to Gringotts, to retrieve some money. After a wild ride down the tunnels to her account, she opened the door to her vault to find a small stack of coins. She took all knuts, some sickles and only a few galleons. Seeing the vault filled with her hard earned money made her feel very proud of herself.

She immediately went to The Leaky Cauldron to get a room for the rest of the month. It was pricey but she could take it – especially since a free meal a day was included in the price! Upon entering her new room, she dropped her bag on the floor before flinging herself on the bed. Everything was clean, the sheets smelled fresh and newly laundered, and the bathroom was wonderful. Hermione was not a religious person, but room 31 felt very much like she imagined heaven would feel like.


End file.
